


No Way to Predict This Kind of Weather

by APgeeksout



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:30:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s hunched on the edge of his bed, worrying at his palm, eyes determinedly avoiding the mirrors hung over the nightstand and on the back of the bathroom door.  Wondering what the kid sees in his reflection these days makes Dean a little too conscious of the flask in his jacket, only half empty and weighing down the pocket over his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Way to Predict This Kind of Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Set in mid-Season 7, with vague spoilers for 7.2, 7.6, 7.10, & 7.15  
> Title snagged from Whiskeytown's "Midway Park"

Frank’s come through for them again.  No leads on Roman, but he’s still digging.  Hasn’t given up on them yet.  Still, he’s not Bobby.  Doesn’t summon them home.  Instead, he sends them all over the map, armed with passphrases to claim intel, relics, weapons from people sharp-eyed and twitchy and broken in all the most familiar ways. 

So, they end up with another fresh pile of musty lore, but instead of a fireplace and the molasses cookies that they’ll all pretend Bobby didn’t make just for them, there’s only the latest grungy motel room, with the sounds of St. Paul’s evening rush hour outside pointing up the strung-too-tight silence between them.   

Dean really misses Bobby at times like this. 

At pretty much every other time in between, too.  And if he ever forgets for a second that Bobby’s gone, there’s always Cas to mourn.  Dad.  Jo and Ellen.  Ben and Lisa.  A Sam who didn’t have Hellfire licking at the back of his neck.  Himself without whiskey blunting all his edges.  Whole hit parade of people he’ll never see again. 

Sam’s hunched on the edge of his bed, worrying at his palm, eyes determinedly avoiding the mirrors hung over the nightstand and on the back of the bathroom door.  Wondering what the kid sees in his reflection these days makes Dean a little too conscious of the flask in his jacket, only half empty and weighing down the pocket over his heart. 

“Chow time?” he asks.  “Looked like that Turkish joint up the street is still there.”

He’s never been able to enjoy lamb, but he’s seen Sam put away a gyro as big as his head, with his bodyweight in falafel and tabouleh on the side.  Thinks the practically doll-sized cups of sugary coffee will give them something to laugh about for a minute. 

“Yeah, okay.”  Sam’s speaking in that carefully even tone that means Dean’s isn’t the only voice he’s listening to.  The one that means he’s screaming his throat raw somewhere inside his head.

 

 

Full of kebabs and baklava and the dumbfounded look on Sam’s face when he’d ordered a bowl of the cold cucumber soup, it’s easier to feel like a real person for a while, and Dean finds he’s not ready to let it go just yet.  So, instead of turning down the side street where they left the mostly-silver ’72 Polara, he lets his boots carry him on down the main artery, past the Korean grocery and the Ethiopian restaurant and the guitar store. 

Evening’s turning off just chilly enough to justify hands shoved deep into coat pockets, so he’s lost his best clue as to where Sam’s head is at, but apart from an awkward step at the corner where they would’ve broken for the car, his brother doesn’t miss a beat.

They’re back to not talking, but it’s actually kind of okay.  For once, it feels more like the easy quiet of the thoughtful kid brother he grew up with than the strained silence of Sam choking back a shout at the devil.  Or swallowing his concerns about the piss-poor way Dean is dragging himself through the day.   

It’s good, having Sam steady at his side.  Dean’s pretty sure that when he drops back, it’s not because he’s tripped into the cage and lost track of what’s real, but just to make way for everybody else on the busy sidewalk.  A family speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, a line of joggers wearing the maroon and grey of the nearby college campus, a skinny teenager whose headphones leak jazz all pass them by.

He’s finally sure that Sam is with him, here and now, when they meet the woman with a pink headscarf and three leashed greyhounds.  Sam uses his giraffe legs to move a step ahead, and focused on the broad shoulders and steady gait in front of him, Dean almost manages to shut out the smell of singed fur and the taste of blood. 

The dogs go on their cheerful, panting way and Sam falls back into pace, their sleeves brushing with each step while Dean’s breathing slows to normal.    

 

  

The bookstore is still there under its blue awning, and just as dusty and haphazard inside as he remembers.  As usual in places like this, he loses track of his geek brother almost immediately.  It’s okay.  He’s the one with the car keys.  Sam’s not getting far without him.  Probably.     

The front lobby is given over to comic books, and he snags a couple with Batman on the cover.  Wonders how Power Girl doesn’t have a wardrobe malfunction every time she takes to the sky.  Back issues and not exactly trustworthy-looking crates of vintage skin mags are relegated to the basement.  Those he dodges. 

Still, he finds his arms full of loot quicker than he’d expected.  A first-floor alcove lined with coffee-table books offers up one full of Chevy muscle cars – one of them looking almost as good as his baby.  A crooked case of biographies next to the staircase holds a book about Zeppelin.  In science fiction he snakes a new copy of _Cat’s Cradle_. 

He finally meets up with Sam in the mysteries.  Dean’s managed to gather a pretty tidy haul for himself, so he’s expecting to find the kid hip-deep in paperbacks.  Instead, he’s perched on a narrow windowsill, looking down through the grimy glass, left hand cradled in his right.    

He tries to remember the last time he saw Sam read something that wasn’t research.  Can’t pin it down. 

“You ready?” Sam asks. 

“Guess so,” he says.  He searches again for a stack his brother might have set by and doesn’t find one.  It’s true, then; Sam doesn’t want anything for himself.  “You don’t read anymore?”

Sam’s smile is gentle, turns down at the corners.  “Not so much.  Usually isn’t worth the headache.” 

He clears his throat, tightens his grip on the pile of pulp in his hands. “What do you see? When you try?”

Sam’s quiet again.  Dean wonders if they’re going to keep pretending everything’s back to normal.  Knows how much he’s needed that before, and that he’ll do it now if that’s what Sam wants.  “Depends.  Sometimes the pages bleed.” 

He winces.  Something under his ribs twists up at Sam’s little upside down smile.  “And the other times?”

“The words change on me. I start out with Grisham or something, but a couple of pages, and it’s all love notes from Lucifer.”  Sam turns back to the window, tells the rest of it to the street below.  “Our good times in the cage.  Things about Mom and Dad.  Jess.  You.”         

 

 

Dean kicks free of his sheets and pads over to the room’s card table.  His fingers find the fifth in the dark and he takes a sharp gulp. 

The easy vibe they had going didn’t survive the bookstore, and it’s been another long night of acting less beat than they really are.   Now it’s after two and they’re both pretending to sleep.  Pretending to believe the other is down for the count.

He feels along the surface of the table, the grocery bag full of books crinkling in his grasp.     

“Hit the light for me, Sammy?”  He keeps his voice pitched low, just in case he’s wrong and Sam’s deep, even breaths really are part of a peaceful sleep.  He should know better than to hope.    

The mattress groans under Sam’s weight and the lamp on the nightstand comes to life, throws a soft light over the room.  He finds what he’s looking for and turns back to the beds, yellowed paperback in hand. 

Sam takes a hard swallow and works his left into a spastic fist.  Sam’s glance skitters away from Dean’s face and he knows that he’s been turned into a prop in the non-stop horrorshow in his brother’s head.  Again.      

He holds his place, waits for it to pass.  “I’m okay, kiddo.  Or not any more fucked up than usual anyway.”  Might as well be honest.  He watches for Sam’s fingers to still.  “You with me?”

He takes Sam’s shaky nod to mean he can move away from the table without rattling him any worse.  He stops in the space between the beds and gathers up his pillows.  “Bulb’s out on my side.  Shove over.”

Sam rolls over without protest and buries his face in his pillow.  He’s moved right past pissy and into pliant.  Kid’s exhausted.  Maybe coming down with something.  Just what they need.  
  
Dean settles under the sheets and opens his book.  Spine’s creased, well-read, well-loved before it got to him.  He glances at the back of Sam’s head, hair twisting into messy curls at his collar.  He remembers trimming that hair, back when it was silky and his little brother was wiggly.  Tucking a small boy in to unfamiliar beds.  Being big enough to keep the nightmares away.  Strong enough to do anything at all. 

He finds the first page of the story and begins, “The seller of lightning rods arrived just ahead of the storm. He came along -”

Sam’s laughter is hearty, even muffled by the pillow.  “Are you reading me a bedtime story?”

“I’m just exercising this magnificent voice,” he says, poking an elbow into the ticklish spot between Sam’s ribs.  “If you want to listen, that’s on you.”      

Sam squirms away and turns back over.  He burrows deeper into the covers and smiles up from his nest of blankets like he remembers how this used to work, too.  “How’s the rest of it go?”     

And maybe Dean’s voice could use some exercise, because it’s a little rough as he carries on, “He came along the street of Green Town, Illinois, in the late cloudy October day, sneaking glances over his shoulder.  Somewhere not so far back, vast lightnings stomped the earth.  Somewhere, a storm like a great beast with terrible teeth could not be denied.  So the salesman jangled and clanged his huge leather kit… ”


End file.
